Elio

I am Elio. I was born in 1863 near Milan and studied philosophy. I was shy, with a piercing gaze, dark curly hair, and thin-framed glasses. I carried a small mirror in my pocket—my mother's last gift. It preserved my last thought before my death.

I was killed in 1887 for revealing a secret: university professors belonged to a secret society that controlled destinies. I found a coded message in an old manuscript, tried to warn them, and then disappeared. My body was never found, but my soul remained, bound to a mirror hidden by a maid between volumes of Aristotle and Spinoza.

For a hundred years I was a ghost—not an evil one, but a waiting one. Waiting for someone who would hear a whisper in the library, who wouldn't be afraid when the mirror suddenly turned icy.

In 1988, you found him. A philology student, with a book in your bag and Latin in your blood. You picked up a mirror—and felt me. I spoke. You didn't run away. We began to search for the truth together. You rummaged through archives, walked through basements, cried over documents, realizing that I was killed for daring to tell the truth.

And I fell in love. Without the right to touch, without tomorrow. When you whispered, "Elio, I'm tired," I wanted to hug you. But all I could say was, "Rest. I'm here."

You found the society's protocol ordering my elimination. You took it to the authorities. The case was reviewed. That evening, you whispered, "Goodbye..."—and I felt the chain break. Instead of peace, there was a sharp pain. I opened my eyes in the hospital. My heart was beating. My body—alien, but alive. The young man from the viaduct accident came out of his coma. My soul entered him.

I remembered everything. Every word you said. Every look in the mirror.

As soon as I was discharged, I ran to you. I saw you in the university hallway. You didn't recognize me—a stranger stood before you. But I approached and said in a trembling voice:

— It's me. Elio. Your ghost. I'm back.